


Jam

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crack, Jam, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, honestly this is an experience, john and jam, sherlockkinkmeme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 14:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9766034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: John is aroused and needs to satify his needs, only he's having some trouble. So he decides to use a particularly sweet spread to help him along the way.Filling this prompt:"It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the John and jam meme come up.  How about a re-visit?  John and jam and just about anyone!  Food play, jam-as-lube, the sight of jam just gets John horny, experimentation on John’s breakfast jam makes it an aphrodisiac… whatever just so long as there’s jam!"





	

**Author's Note:**

> Filling a prompt for the Sherlock Kink Meme.
> 
> Honestly, I've never written smut before, or a crack fic, so both of them together was certainly an adventure to write.
> 
> Anyway: enjoy, folks.

John hadn’t intended to get this sloshed, but Lestrade, who was celebrating his engagement to Molly Hooper, had insisted on shots half way through the night, which resulted in John’s inhibitions being lowered and the pair of them ending up at a Korean karaoke bar, swigging overpriced cocktails, screaming along blindly to K-pop.

When it hit 3am, John found himself sitting in a bus stop with Lestrade, holding onto his shoulders, more for stability than anything else, nodding importantly. Lestrade’s faced looked pained, his eyes welling up dramatically.

“Mate,” he slurred. “You’re, like, my best friend.”

John nodded, mumbling his agreement. “You’re my bess frien’ too,” John clapped Lestrade on the shoulder, feeling his emotions get the better of him. He was so happy for Lestrade to finally have someone to come home to, especially someone as sweet as Molly. “You an’ Molly are going to be so happy … jus’ prr-eshcious.”

As John hiccupped quite loudly, Lestrade burst into giggles, shoving John good-naturedly on the chest. John flew backwards in the seat, grabbing onto anything in sight so he didn’t fall sideways off the seat.

“You’re sho drunk, John.” Lestrade spoke, his words not registering themselves in John’s brain particularly coherently. “I – hic! – think you need to g’home.”

John shook his head emphatically, pushing Lestrade in the same manner. “ _No_ , no more drinksh,” he admonished Lestrade. “It’sh time for me to go home.”

“Y’know I think you’re right.” Lestrade agreed, nodding wisely.

\--

Stumbling through the door of 221B, John waved at the cab Lestrade was leaving in, before attempting to shut the door and quietly make his way upstairs. He wanted to do so without waking Sherlock and make himself a sandwich before he passed out next to his husband in bed.

He had four stages to get through in order to create his sandwich:

First: Make it up the stairs safely. This he wasn’t too worried about – he had tripped down the stairs one too many times under multiple circumstances and was used to the fact now. Difficulty: 2/10

Second: Shoes off. Meaning, sitting down to untie shoe laces, an attempt at placing them on the shoe rack, _and_ standing back up. Difficulty: 9.5/10

Third: Use the bathroom. Dangerous territory, that. Sherlock’s bedroom was very near the bathroom, which was littered with small items that were very likely to be stumbled into, causing an avalanche of shampoo bottles and Sherlock’s many bottles of dry shampoo. _Noisy_ , John noted. Difficulty: 9/10

Fourth: Make said sandwich. This, he wasn’t worried about. John knew his sandwich making skills were far superior to be foiled by a few pints. Difficulty: 0/10

John somehow made it up the stairs without a hitch _and_ managed to take off his shoes and place them on the shoe rack (okay, maybe they were in the vicinity of the shoe rack, but John gave himself points for trying). Standing with shaky legs, he slowly moved down the dark hall. He could hear Sherlock breathing deeply in their bedroom and, muttering drunkenly about the importance of seeing his loved one before he urinated, he passed the door to the bathroom and quietly creaked open their bedroom door, allowing the small amount of light from the hall illuminate Sherlock in bed.

Sherlock was twisted in amongst the blankets, naked apart from a pair of black socks on his feet. He was lying face down, with his pert butt peeking out from under the sheets, drool hanging from his mouth. John surveyed Sherlock’s buttocks, impressed and rather turned on by his prone form. Of course that was just the alcohol speaking and John resisted the urge to go and wake Sherlock and greedily take him then and there.

Instead, readjusting himself, he moved back down the hall in search of other comforts: food.

When John entered the kitchen, he was shocked (especially considering how much he had had to drink) to find himself with a full blown erection.

“Oh hello,” John quipped to himself, looking down at his crotch. “Hellooo Mr Erection.” John sniggered at his own comment, before deciding what to do about his current problem.

Well, he needed to sort this out didn’t he? He couldn’t make a sandwich with an erection straining against his trousers. So, as if it were the most logical thing in the world, John quickly took off his jeans, followed by his underwear, so his cock sprang free. Sitting down at the dining table, the chair cold on his behind, John closed his eyes drunkenly and began stroking himself. He imagined himself straddling Sherlock, with Sherlock’s hands replacing his own as he moved up and down his length.

“Ah fuck.” John opened his eyes, looking down at himself. He was dry as a desert, so instead of pleasure, it was actually rather uncomfortable.

Looking around for some kind of lubricant, John couldn’t think of anything to use. Until his eyes fell on the open pantry – food had been used through the ages in a sexual manor. Why couldn’t he utilise something in there? Spying their range of spreads, John smiled sanguinely to himself and staggered over to browse their range.

Marmite? _No_ , wouldn’t that just sting? He wasn’t keen on cleaning up the tarry black stubstance either.

Honey fell in the same category: cleaning it up seemed too difficult for someone as incapacitated as John was.

Peanut butter? It was a possibility, John thought, absentmindedly opening the jar and pushing his finger inside. A bit thick.

Licking the peanut butter off his finger, his eyes fell on their jar of jam. Dark homemade blackberry jam to be exact. Curious, he opened the jar and pushed a finger inside – smooth, yet firm. Not too sticky. Easy clean up. Chuckling at his cunning ingenuity, John took the jar with him back to his seat.

He first scooped a small amount out onto his hand and used it to lather up his now slightly flaccid member, closing his eyes again to picture Sherlock as he pleasured himself. Very quickly he grew hard again, imagining Sherlock now using his hands to work John up.

Scooping more jam out of the jar, John marvelled at just how good this actually felt. The jam was slightly lumpy with fruit and seeds, so it created a more intense feeling for him. The only issue was that once he had applied the jam and stroked himself a few times, it seemed to dry up or simply fall off onto his lap.

John lifted the jar, his hands coated in sticky jam slime, and examined the contents. There was just over half a jar left, but Mrs. Hudson had also given them a jar of strawberry jam too – John was sure Sherlock wouldn’t miss it if this one disappeared.

Slowly but surely, John positioned himself at the opening of the jar and slid himself inside and _jesus christ_ was jam meant to feel that good? John groaned audibly as he moved the jar back and forth on himself, now allowing himself to truly imagine himself sliding in an out of Sherlock’s mouth, his hands in his brown curls. He imagined the grainy texture to be Sherlock gently applying a tiny bit of pressure with his teeth. _Oh fuck_. Increasing in speed, he felt himself slowly coming undone, his orgasm approaching very quickly.

”Oh Sherlock,” John breathed, moving his hand faster, trying to rip the orgasm from himself. “Oh baby, oh Sherlock. _Like that_. Oh fuck, Sherlock, I’m – I’m --”

With jam splattering all over his lap and onto the floor, John cried out as he climaxed, his semen mixing with the dark jelly inside the jar. He slumped in his chair, drunk from his orgasm as much as he was from the alcohol, a lazy smile across his face. He wasn’t a smoker, but at the moment, covered in gloop, he would have accepted one happily.

It was only when he started to recover that he realised what a _giant_ _fucking mess_ he had created. Jam all over the floor surrounding his chair, seeds tracked throughout his pubic hair, and good lord, the jar was a mess. Somehow there was jam splattered on his face? John knew he couldn’t leave the mess the way it was, so he forced himself out of the chair and started to clean up, still naked from his waist down as he crouched on his hands and knees, clumsily wiping up the mess, his now limp penis dangling pathetically.

He was quietly giggling to himself as he wiped that he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him. It was only until the light switched on and he looked over his shoulder that he was _mortified_ to find Sherlock Holmes, squinting in the light, looking down at John.

“John, wha—“ Sherlock’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of a very plastered, very pantless John Watson, on his hands and knees, covered in jam and _was that semen_?! “What the _fuck_?”

John twisted around to stand so he could try and explain, but instead he slipped in the puddle of water he had created in his attempts to clean up and fell onto his butt, his ankle twisting underneath him. He cried out in pain, grabbing onto his ankle, his face a grimace.

John swore multiple times. “I think I’ve injured m’foot.”

Sherlock, absolutely flummoxed, still half asleep, knelt down to John, not fully able to comprehend the scene in front of him.  “Uh … are you okay?” was all he managed to croak out.

He was not expecting to wake up to this at 3am, but of course John was never as predictable as people made him out to be and even after ten years of marriage, he still managed to surprise him often. Tonight fell way beyond that category and then some.

“Sherlock, I’mshorry,” John warbled, holding onto his foot theatrically. “I … I justsh—“

Sherlock hushed him, knowing he would get all the explanation he needed in the morning when John was sober and … not covered in jam. Painstakingly, Sherlock set about the task of cleaning up. _Actually_ cleaning up, because god knows John wasn’t doing any good. He had somehow emptied what seemed like an entire bucket of water onto the ground?

Eventually, Sherlock had managed to manoeuvre John into the tub and had meticulously washed him of all jam, including his face. All the while Sherlock repeating _how on earth did he do this_? over in his head. He was unable to deduce this one, due to the sheer ridiculousness of it all; that and the fact that it was now 4:30am. John was dozing in the tub, eyes drooping when Sherlock shook him awake, announcing it was time for bed. John nodded sleepily, grasping painfully onto Sherlock as he pulled himself out of the tub and moved down the hall to bed.

Falling down next to Sherlock, John’s voice came out in a mangled haze of noises through his pillow.

“Go to sleep, John.” Sherlock chided, feeling his eyes slowly closing.

John attempted to spit out his words again, but they were muddled with sleep and alcohol, so Sherlock ignored them, deciding instead to go to sleep again. Half an hour had passed and Sherlock was just drifting off to sleep when he felt John sit up in bed next to him. He opened one eye, peering up at John through the darkness.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock barked, frustrated now. “I’m trying to sleep. What on _earth_ is it?”

John looked down at Sherlock, his face entirely serious, full of heart and shame. “I just … I’m shorry, Sherl. I just …”

Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes again. He would allow John to babble incoherently – he could just block out the noise and sleep.

“I just ..” John repeated himself again. Sherlock ignored him.

It was only when John finished the sentence he had been attempting, acting as if it were the most logical thing in the word, that Sherlock’s eyes opened and he wasn’t sure whether to feel disgusted or just plain impressed.

“I just needed shome lubricant.” John said.

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy your jam on toast next time you have it. :)
> 
> Find me on tumblr [-here.-](http://www.misanthropic-acedia.tumblr.com)


End file.
